


The Next Best Thing

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a fluffy ending, Blood, Cigarettes, Dying Wings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Progressive Illness, Season/Series 10, Sick Castiel, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3761443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel loses his wings. Crowley makes it up to him.</p><p>--<br/>General spoilers for SPN Season 10 through 10x07: "Girls, Girls, Girls"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Best Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt:
> 
> _Have you ever considered Crowley with a motorcycle taking for a ride a pretty boy ex-angel who misses his wings? I haven't decided whether Crowley is too posh for a motorcycle but it would be a great excuse to have Cas wrapped around him for long stretches of time, so I think that would be devious enough for him to do it._
> 
> Y'all are so creative, I love it :D
> 
> A bit canon divergent with the wing scenario. This was written before watching 10x14 - 10x18.

The angel remains a stubborn bird to the last. 

Castiel should be in Heaven. Crowley hates to admit this, but he cannot deny it. Heaven may not be able to cure Castiel, but they will know how to keep him comfortable. Castiel’s past sins will not matter to them. He restored peace between the feathered brats. They will welcome him, Crowley insists. 

Castiel refuses.

Crowley tries to persuade him to choose the bunker with Moose. Sam is reasonably sane for a Winchester, after all, and he cares about Castiel. 

Crowley despised his stay at the bunker, clearly. But, the boys’ torture room aside, the rest of the place was adequate. Warm, clean beds. A stocked kitchen. Any creature comforts a deteriorating angel could need. 

Castiel refuses.

As a final effort, Crowley offers admittance to Hell. He is reluctant to do so. Not because Crowley does not care about Castiel. In his own way, he does. It is an unspoken thing, this bond between them. Years and experience have softened their hatred to a begrudging sort of truce.

The largest deterrent is a black-eyed Dean Winchester. Castiel grills Crowley on the matter daily. Crowley is tired of it. 

The second deterrent is smaller but valid. The fact is…Hell is no place for a sick bird. It is dark, dirty, and cluttered with stupid demons. His idiot underlings would stumble over each other for a chance to witness the last breath of the great Castiel.

Castiel refuses Hell too. Crowley is not particularly upset.

But he does not like Castiel’s chosen motel. It stinks of mold and age. Every piece of furniture wears a fine layer of dust. A ridiculous choice for an angel in a health crisis. 

Crowley appears once a week at first. He scowls at the state of the room and waves away layers of grime. Then, he conjures up the best of his mother’s spells to get more sunlight into the room. Before Crowley leaves, he touches up the warding spells on the walls. One can never be too careful. 

His visits increase to twice a week when the coughs begin. 

Three times a week when the coughs worsen. Castiel stops asking about Dean. 

Crowley does more than clean the room then. He bundles the angel in blankets and places a cool hand on his forehead. His fever worsens with every visit. 

Castiel rasps that he is okay. But the coughs begin again. Body-wracking hacks leave him balled tight on the bed.

“My wings are dying,” he says.

Weeks pass before Crowley sees what he means.

One day, Castiel’s wings are out. They are black and wilted, quivering behind his vessel. 

The demon-king sits on the side of the bed and rests his hand on Castiel’s forehead. “You’re not drinking the water I leave you,” he says. 

“Can I tell you something if you promise never to tell another soul?” This seems a strange thing to ask of the King of Hell. 

But Castiel’s eyes are wet with fever. His misery is persuasive. “Of course, love.”

“When I was an angel, sometimes I disobeyed.”

“You’re still an angel,” Crowley mutters. He cares about this more than he should. 

“We were not supposed to show our wings on Earth. Too dangerous, they said. We were punshed-” Castiel breaks off, hiding his coughs against a fist. His wings shudder behind him.

Crowley traces a thumb along his hairline. He waits.

“I was caught sometimes,” Castiel continues, voice strained. “Other times, I wasn't.” His eyes twinkle. “I soared, Crowley. Arms wide through the bluest skies. I soared so high.” Castiel's expression falls. “I’ll miss my wings.”

Crowley’s mouth tightens. He wants to tell the angel to stop this nonsense. Castiel is his sworn nemesis, his equal. He will not be destroyed by stolen grace.  

But fool’s hope is for humans. Angels and demons know better.

***

The next time Crowley appears, Castiel’s wings have dulled to an elderly gray. They are marked by bald patches and flecks of dried blood. The floor is a garden of fallen feathers.

Crowley hears Castiel breathing on the bed. Every inhale scratches, every exhale a wheeze.

“They’re dying,” Castiel whispers. His cheeks are hot with fever. 

 _You’re dying,_ Crowley’s mind corrects. But it does not matter anyhow. Castiel is his enemy. He should not care.

Crowley goes into the bathroom and returns with a damp wash cloth. 

He sits beside Castiel and pads the crumpled towel across his forehead. Castiel nods towards the touch. 

His lips are painfully chapped. Crowley touches them with the cloth. Castiel licks at the moisture, sucking in a breath. 

Crowley bids him to sit up. “You need water,” he says.

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not human.” 

Crowley urges him higher, drawing a groan. “You’re human-adjacent,” he replies. “And you need water. Now, up.”

He succeeds, somewhat. Castiel’s weight slumps against his side. 

Crowley produces a glass of fresh water and holds it to his lips. Castiel drinks a sip, then more, greedily. He only stops to cough. His wings shiver behind him. More feathers fall.

“Easy, pet,” Crowley murmurs. 

Even after the coughs subside, Castiel stays where he is. His breaths shake against Crowley’s neck.

“I should not be scared," Castiel says.

Crowley does not know if he was meant to hear this. He does not respond.

*** 

The next time Crowley comes, there is blood everywhere.

Blood on Castiel’s back. Blood in his eyes. Blood on his mouth. Blood on his wings. Or, what remains of his wings. 

They are stark, white bones. Tangled and weak like a young tree in winter. Every feather is gone.

Crowley can only watch as what is left of Castiel’s grace collapses on itself. Castiel writhes on the bed. His blood stains the sheet. 

A bone snaps from Castiel's wing. It crumbles to the floor like the wall of a sand castle. Castiel screams. 

Crowley has seen and heard his pain countless times. Some, he has caused. Much, he has enjoyed. This, though. This is different. Crowley’s eyes are red before he even feels his own anger. But what recourse is there? There is no way to stop this. 

The angel reaches for something. His blade is on the nightstand, Crowley realizes. The weapon is the most pristine object in the room.

Crowley waves a hand and tosses it out of reach.

Castiel is not angry, he does not have the energy. Instead, his desperation turns on the King of Hell. He claws under Crowley’s jacket for his hidden dagger. 

“Do it," he says. 

A part of Crowley wants to. Not as the demon-king, sworn enemy of all angels. As an old partner. A friend. Perhaps. 

Crowley takes Castiel’s hands in his own. “No,” he replies. 

The word defeats Castiel. His eyes roll back in a merciful unconsciousness.

After a minute, Crowley realizes he has not moved. He is still holding Castiel’s hands between his. Rubbing them, trying to warm his skin. 

Crowley needs air. Immediately. He releases Castiel and stalks to the door. 

He pauses at a moan from the bed. Another bone has splintered, dangling from the web of Castiel’s wings. Thankfully, he does not wake.

Crowley stuffs his hands into his pockets and escapes.

Outdoors, it feels ten degrees warmer. Crowley grabs onto the edge of a bike rack. The metal is a cool, stable presence under his palms. 

Crowley’s closes his eyes. He feels nauseous. It is an odd sensation. One he has not felt in a long time.

“Buddy, you okay?”

Crowley glares, ready to tell the stranger to bugger off. But something about the man’s eyes stays his anger. Genuine concern. An old wisdom, perhaps. 

Crowley mutes his usual grumbling. He just turns away to show his disinterest with conversation.

The man gets it. He doesn't say another word. But he does flip out a pack of cigarettes and extend it towards Crowley. 

Crowley looks at it. After a moment, he takes one and leans in to get a light. He mutters a curt thanks and brings the cig to his lips. 

Cigarettes were never Crowley’s chosen vice, not like his beloved Craig. He uses them for business transactions, primarily. Cigarettes make certain humans feel at ease. Humans at ease are ripe for deal-making.  

But today, Crowley finds the repetition of the cigarette helpful. He takes a long drag and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the stranger is in the parking lot. He climbs onto his motorcycle. It is a beauty of a hog, polished black with red flame. 

A pretty blonde in denim shorts straddles the bike behind him. Her laugh lingers in the lot long after they pull out.

Crowley stares at the pavement for awhile. Then, he stubs out his cigarette and snaps a finger. Smoke removal in a second - just one perk of being the King of Hell.

He feels more level-headed when he returns to the room. Not returning is not an option, Crowley realizes. 

Crowley climbs onto the bed. Castiel shifts towards him. He blinks through a mess of blood and tears.  

“I’m here, Cas,” Crowley murmurs, as if this will provide comfort. 

He winces at another sickening crack. A shudder tears through Castiel’s spine.  

“I’m here,” Crowley repeats.

He stays until the floor is a graveyard of bones. Castiel’s blood dries slowly on his skin.

***

It is foolish to think that what is gone will return with stolen grace and good fortune. But Crowley is uncharacteristically hopeful. He appears on the night of Dean Winchester’s return and looks to Castiel immediately. 

Castiel shakes his head, and Crowley understands. No wings.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, “for helping me.” He does not sound thankful.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley mumbles. Stupid words. He does not know why he says them. 

Is he sorry for giving Castiel this new grace? Not at all. They both know Crowley saved his life, remarkable given their history. 

Sorry, in general, that Castiel has gone through this ordeal? Perhaps this is it.

Castiel sighs. “We’ve all lost something, Crowley. Look at the Winchesters. They’ve given so much. My sacrifice, compared to theirs, is a small thing.”

Crowley does not agree. Not after what he witnessed in that motel room. But he knows not to engage Castiel on the Winchesters unless he fancies a brawl. Tonight, he does not.

“And you,” Castiel adds.

Crowley cocks his head. “What have I lost, angel?”

“You care. You can't pretend you don't anymore.”

Crowley does not like this assessment. He disappears from the room.

***

Weeks pass before the demon-king appears again. Castiel has just said goodbye to the Hannah, a new mission set before him.

Crowley arrives in unusual attire. A black t-shirt, black jeans, and black leather jacket.

He nods to Castiel, whose blade is drawn. The wardrobe change is a surprise, clearly. When angels are surprised, they tend to go for the cutlery. 

“Hello, darling,” Crowley greets. 

“Crowley?” Castiel looks him over, dagger still in hand. “…What are you wearing?”

“Not my usual finesse,” Crowley admits, “but I think it suits me.” He motions towards the door. “We’re going for a ride, you and me.”

Castiel frowns. “You want to go for a drive?”

“In your monstrosity of a car?” Crowley snorts. “Not a chance. Something better. Come.”

Crowley knows he’s piqued the angel’s interest when Castiel follows without a word.

The Harley is parked out front. Black, strong, and polished to perfection. The detailing gleams silver under the full moon. 

“A motorcycle?” Castiel wonders. “I don’t understand.”

Crowley shrugs. Suddenly, he isn’t sure. “It won’t be the same, of course. But, you’ll feel the wind.”

Castiel’s expression changes, eyes wide with understanding. 

Before Castiel can react, Crowley straddles the bike. He waits. 

Crowley only procured one bike. He has his own vision for this evening. But it will be easy enough to save face if Castiel protests. After all, he is the King of Hell. Procuring a second motorcycle will be like stealing candy from a mortal brat. 

Crowley is genuinely surprised when Castiel sits behind him on the bike. No argument, no litany of questions. His hands settle against Crowley’s stomach, and his knees press into Crowley’s thighs.

This is almost perfect. Almost.

Crowley glances around. With no one in sight, he snaps his fingers.

Castiel makes a surprised sound. His suit and trench coat are gone, replaced by attire matching Crowley’s. Black jeans, black shirt, black leather jacket.

“What did you do with my-”

“I’ll return them, pet,” Crowley says. “You’re not riding with me in that ridiculous coat." 

Castiel huffs his disapproval, but he does not argue. He just hooks his fingers into Crowley’s shirt. “Are we going or not?” he asks.

Crowley’s mouth twitches. He revs the engine to life.

They go everywhere. 

Night roads, empty under the stars. Streets twisting through mountains. Crowley cuts tight corners. It thrills even himself and makes the angel tense at his back. 

They ride beside the ocean, waves rolling onto the sand. And through warm stretches of desert. Sun on their skin, blue sky above. 

Crowley no longer feels Castiel’s hands. Alarmed, he looks back. 

Castiel’s arms are stretched wide. His eyes are closed, and his head is tipped back. The look on his face is pure ecstasy.

Crowley turns back around before Castiel catches the smile on his face. 

He does not say “you’re welcome.” He just speeds on ahead.

* The End *

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked! I'm on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) too if you want to say hi over there :)


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